Capable, strong and patient, Hugo prides himself on being able to fix anything. Trouble is, he’s never tried repairing a chasm in someone’s soul before.

Will his love save Chloe or will fixing her leave him broken?

In the bedroom, we spend a moment just holding hands and staring at each other.Hugo’s gaze zeros in on my lips.I wonder if he’s going to kiss me. I can’t wait for him to kiss me.But instead, he lets go of my hands and pulls his sweater, along with his tee, over his head.My mouth waters at the sight of his tanned torso. It’s all chiseled muscle and smooth skin with a dusting of freckles across his shoulders and a scatter of hairs over his pecs. The hair trails down to his navel and disappears under the waistband of his jeans.My heart stops and then pounds like crazy.What’s happening to me?Hugo is not supposed to be my type. I’m not supposed to be into large, powerfully builtmen.So why, then, am I leering?With my eyes trained on his chest, I remove my sweater and bra faster than he can say, “Take off your sweater and bra, sweetheart.”He doesn’t say that, of course. Instead, he takes off his shoes and socks and draws the zipper of his jeans down.As if playing a game of Who Gets Naked First, I peel off my jeans and panties. My gaze is glued to his fly.He lets his jeans and underwear pool on the floor.Oh my!He’s large.I can’t believe this is happening. What’s even harder to believe is how much I want him to make love to me. But an equally strong need offsets my eagerness. I’d like to slow down the time so I can savor every second of this evening. I want to etch it into my memory.Our first time together.Hugo’s breathing picks up and he takes a step toward me. In a wink, his palm spreads across the small of my back. It’s big. It’s hot. I nearly whimper. He pulls me closer, and desire shoots from my groin, seeping into my mind and enveloping my brain in a thick lustful cloud of fog.But I battle it, the cerebral creature that I am. I try to guess what kind of lover Hugo is. Will he be gentle with me or rough or both? Will he draw out the foreplay into a boring mechanical show of prowess like so many misguided men do? Or will be plunge into me the moment we hit the mattress? Perhaps even before we hit the mattress--Hugo bends his head toward me, and his lips part. His warm breath fans against my face. He smells scrumptious.How come I never noticed how good he smells?Because I never let him this close.His hand on my back brings me closer still until we’re skin to skin, his groin against my belly.My skin prickles. Desire makes me tremble. My heart hammers with an ardor I’ve never experienced before. I give in to it gladly, completely. The fog in my head swaddles my brain, permeating every cell and taking charge of my body. When Hugo’s free hand lands on my nape, firm and gentle at the same time, my legs begin to quake. His gaze roams my face. I stare at his lips as I wet mine. Something molten flickers in his eyes, and the next moment he slants his mouth on mine.I open up greedily.His tongue explores my mouth, strokes my tongue, and makes me dizzy with pleasure. I kiss back, tasting him, drinking him in, and I rub his back and knead his butt.Hugo draws away ever so slightly and slides his hand down my belly. I stand on tiptoe and push myself into his hand. He strums me with his fingers, exploring me, learning me, as I sigh and moan. And then he uses his newfound knowledge to make me moan harder.I glide my hand over his hips to his front and wrap my fingers around him. A moment later, my internal muscles spasm softly and I come. It’s a small, no-fireworks—not even a firecracker-strength—orgasm that would normally require a lot more time and effort to wring from my body. Over the years I’ve learned not to expect more as this seems to be the only kind of release I’m capable of.Hugo withdraws his fingers and lowers us to the bed.I fumble for a condom on my night table.There.My hands tremble with giddy anticipation as I pull it on him.When I’m done, he braces himself on his outstretched arms, his hips wedged between my legs. I marvel at all that heavy muscle and restrained strength, at the sheer size of his body—so much larger, so much harder than mine. I’ve never been with someone like him. His size should intimidate me, feel like a threat, but instead it turns me on.All our contrasts turn me on.How can this be? How can a dyed-in-the-wool Loki girl feel this way about a Thor? Either I just spontaneously mutated or I’ve been feeding myself a big, fat lie.One of many?I’ll think about this later.Gripping the back of his head, I pull him to me, closer, closer, until his cheek touches my stiff nipples. I want more contact. I want to feel his weight, his strength. My mind is overwhelmed by a primal, cavewomanly need to be enclosed within that strength. To be overpowered and conquered with it. And then serviced by it.But Hugo balks.Could he be afraid of hurting me?“Come here,” I say, tugging at his neck without any tangible result.He smiles apologetically. “I’m too heavy.”“You’re silly.” I hope he doesn’t expect me to beg. Because it’s not gonna happen. “You won’t hurt me, I promise.”He doesn’t budge.OK, I’ll beg. “Please, Hugo. I need you closer.”I tug again and this time he lets me. I add my second hand and pull hard. A moment later, he stretches his full length over me. Our chests, stomachs, and hips are crushed together, his mouth devouring mine. He cups my breast. It’s a handful for him, and I’m struck again by the joy of how unalike we are.He nudges my thighs wider apart, positioning himself.And then he pushes inside.I gasp and arch, meeting the force of him.So good. So freaking good.Why didn’t we do this before? How could I live all these years without it? I know there was a reason, a good one, something to do with what I am. But in this moment I couldn’t care less. No reason seems to make up for what I’ve been forgoing.I close my eyes to enjoy his slow invasion more fully. After a few moments, I rock my hips, urging him to start thrusting.So he does.It takes only four or five strokes for my mind to go AWOL, leaving my body to its own devices. Which is a polite way of saying “out of control.”All the wild things a woman might do while being bonked—my body is doing them all at once and with a total lack of coordination. My hands grip, squeeze, rub, and pinch. My fingers dig into his flesh, and my fingernails rake his back and nick his skin. My hips buck. I moan like a wild cat in heat. My thighs quiver and my internal muscles clamp around him and throb as I peak.This time the climax is so powerful it shakes me to the core. It’s not just a firecracker or even your run-of-the-mill fireworks; it’s a full-on Bastille Day blast of color and light shot into the night sky from the top of the Eiffel Tower.Hugo comes, too. I grip his neck with both hands and hold him close while he groans his pleasure.I wish I could stop time and freeze us in this moment for a few hours, just to give my frenzied brain a chance to comprehend what’s going on here.This intimacy, this proximity bordering on fusion—I’ve never, ever experienced it before. It’s so much more than a well-timed joining of two bodies, followed by a release of endorphins.All my previous physical sensations pale in comparison. All my past emotional highs fade into the background. I’m blown away.Several long moments later, Hugo gives me a gentle kiss and rolls over. I stretch out next to him, still a little dizzy and disoriented. He turns onto his side and pulls me closer. I breathe in his musky scent and snuggle into the warm, comforting crook of his arm. As the marbles in my head rush toward the exit, I kiss his shoulder. As they clatter across the bedroom floor, I prop myself up and run my tongue over the salty skin around his nipples. With a worshipful keenness, I kiss every single freckle on his chest and shoulders.Then I settle back into the crook of his arm, head empty and heart full to overflowing.He threads his fingers into my hair and strokes the back of my head.The blissful emptiness inside my skull thickens into a wooly cloud, and I begin to drift off.“My pichune,” he whispers.I tell myself it’s just a sweet nothing, a cozy little postcoital endearment. It doesn’t mean he has feelings for me.Don’t read too much into it, Chloe. Don’t panic.Ha! It’s easier said than done.An ice-cold wave of fear washes over me, sinking my body through Hugo’s, through the bed, and hundreds of meters below, right into a foul-smelling, dark place that’s all too familiar.Welcome to Chloe’s personal quarters in Hell.The darkness seeps through my skin, poisoning my blood, and paralyzing my muscles. Just before I let it lull me into a slumber full of nightmares, I remember the reason why I convinced myself Hugo wasn’t my type. The reason why I denied myself the joy of his touch.To keep him from harm.To save the love of my life from being my next victim.

​

​Alix Nichols is an unapologetic caffeine addict and a longtime fan of Mr. Darcy, especially in his Colin Firth incarnation. She is a Kindle Scout and Dante Rossetti Award winning author of critically acclaimed romantic comedies.

At the age of six, she released her first rom com. It featured highly creative spelling on a dozen pages stitched together and bound in velvet paper.

Decades later, she still loves the romance genre. Her spelling has improved (somewhat), and her books have made Amazon bestseller lists, climbing as high as #1. She lives in France with her family and their almost-human dog.

When he is summoned to the royal castle, Rochus anticipates nothing more than a particularly difficult assignment. The bothersome journey is almost made worthwhile when he is propositioned by a young, beautiful dragon, Tilo, who seems untroubled by the fact that Rochus is a necromancer.

When Rochus arrives at the castle he is ordered to marry the very same dragon he spent the night with. Though Rochus would rather sign papers and return home, he is helpless against Tilo's pleas for help, even if it means spending more time around a man he is desperately drawn to but who doesn’t seem to want him.

Rochus pulled off his spectacles and wiped them clean as the door of the tavern slammed shut behind him. Noise washed over him, along with the smell of cheap food and too many unwashed people, an undercurrent of smoke, and the faint tingle of magic. He stared through the large, open archway into the dining hall, the need for food warring with a need for solitude and a reluctance to endure the stares that would come when everyone realized what he was.

But he detested hiding in his room like he was something to be ashamed of, and hiding wouldn't stop the rumors or whispers. So he slipped his spectacles back on and approached the counter, pushing back the hood of his cloak. He set two worn, gleaming coins on the counter, ignoring the wide eyes and gaping mouth of the man behind it. "A room, a bath, supper, and breakfast."

"Supper and—" The man snapped his mouth shut. "Of course, magus. Um…" He picked up the coins, eyes flitting about nervously. So close to the royal castle, one would think they'd be more used to the likes of Rochus, but then again, most of his kind preferred to avoid undue attention, and the rest were spoiled brats who'd never settle at a cheap tavern when the royal castle was only a few more hours away.

Stifling a sigh, Rochus answered the question the man couldn't quite get out. "Pig or cow blood will work fine, and chicken or some other fowl if that's the best you can muster. A full pitcher of it, though merely a cup will suffice if more cannot be found. Not horse." They were far too expensive to drain, and the taste wasn't worth it.

"Y-yes, magus. Um." The man licked his lips. "Will you want to see the room first or go straight to the dining hall?"

"The room, and I'll take the bath after I've dined."

The man murmured another affirmative, tucked the coins away, and slid a key across the counter. "Up the stairs, all the way at the very end of that first hall."

"My thanks," Rochus replied and resettled his saddlebags on his shoulder before heading up the dark, creaky steps and down the long hallway. It branched off in three places, but as promised, his was the room at the very back of the first, main hallway.

It smelled of dust and disuse, with a slight tingling-tang of old, faded magic. Powerful magic, likely wards or some other cage meant to keep something in. But the inn had once been a castle in its own right, before it had been torn down and rebuilt, changed to something less expensive and more profitable than an empty fortress. It wasn't surprising remnants of the fortress remained in more than the old stones.

He dropped his saddlebags on the bed and quickly sent his heavy travel cloak after them. Removing his spectacles, he combed fingers through his short, sweat-damp hair. In the dark room, with nothing but slips of moonlight to lend visibility, his hair appeared black. Better lighting would prove it to be blue, so too his nails and teeth. It was the teeth that always made people most uncomfortable—dark blue, some more pointed than they should be, all the more stark against his too-white skin.

Rochus briefly considered changing into fresh clothes, but there was little point until after he'd had a bath—and no telling what would happen in the dining hall. It would hardly be the first time some country bumpkins or foreign nitwits wailed superstitious nonsense and tried to kill him, nevermind he reported directly to the crown.

He smoothed out his robes, frowning at a small tear in the right sleeve. He'd have to stitch it later after his bath.
For the moment, it was time for supper, and hopefully he'd get to enjoy it in peace.

Heading back downstairs, Rochus walked into and through the dining hall, keeping his head up even when the whispers started.

Necromancer.

Half-dead.

Blood-drinker.

His lips curled briefly when he heard someone ask their companion if Rochus was a vampire. As though he was one of those needle-teethed, full-dead mongrels. He drank blood and his teeth were meant for hunting, but it wasn't the same thing. His teeth were more like those of a wolf—teeth he did not use thus because he was a civilized, capable necromancer of forty-three, not some ravening monster.

Rochus sat down at a table in the corner where he wasn't too close to the fire but would still be warm and would be able to see anyone who tried to approach him.

A couple of minutes after he sat, a pale-faced young man brought him a pitcher and cup with faintly trembling hands. Rochus slid a coin across the table, nodding for him to take it. The boy took it and skittered away, and the whispers increased as Rochus poured himself a cup of blood and sipped it. Pig, which he preferred, save for those rare occasions he was able to get something as decadent as human.

He took several more sips, savored the way it warmed him through. There was nothing he hated more than being cold, but it was the one thing he would always be due to what was called his half-dead state. He wasn't actually dead, half or otherwise, but necromancy demanded a high price, drained away half his spirit, replaced it with those unique spiritual energies he needed to wield his strange magic. The physical effects—the corpse white skin, the death-black bones, the need for food replaced by a need for blood—were what earned necromancers the reputation of being half-dead.

This was actually a really great book! I've been reading a lot of the books in the Dubious collection lately and my main complaint about them are that they're too short. This one was actually of a decent length! The storyline was definitely original, the characters were very unique and complex, the dialogue was spot on, and the romance was sizzling hot! I absolutely loved how unique the characters were and how much depth they actually had! From the very beginning, I was completely captivated by this fantastic story and devoured this book in just one sitting. I adored the supernatural/ fantasy theme of this book- a necromancer and were-dragon- that's a combo I've never read before! The romance was absolutely sizzling hot between these two guys! This was much more than just a dirty romance though! There was plenty of action and plot twists thrown in as well to make this into a full-fledged, completely absorbing story. I thoroughly enjoyed this fantastic book and will definitely be on the lookout for more from this author!

They created a monster. Trained by the army, enhanced by medical experimentation, and tested in war. What happens to the creature when the war ends and the man awakens? SSgt. Ryder was born, bred, and enhanced as a warrior, but when he returns home to his new wifeâexiled from the army along with the rest of his disgraced teamâhe faces mounting anger and paranoia. When a fellow soldier does the unthinkable, Ryder disappears to protect his wife, but his departure leaves a vacuum filled with danger. Can he save her or will he lose himself to the beast and destroy what matters most? Abandoned most of her life, Lauren Ryder married thinking she had finally found stability, until her new husband disappeared. He returns altered and secretive. Can she forgive him for crushing her dreams of picket fences and happily ever after? Will she survive what he has become? The surviving members of Team Fear are out of the military and in a world of secrets, lies, and cover-ups in this new romantic suspense series by Cindy Skaggs.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the authorâs imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

Ryder shifted through the crowd gathering behind the police barricade. A local news crew panned the scene from a vantage point to his left. In front of him, a young blonde lifted a wide-eyed toddler to her hip, giving the kid a better view. Gunshots fired had turned into a three-ring circus complete with spectators and media crews.

Crime scene tape snapped under his fingers before he made the conscious choice to proceed. A uniform cop moved to intercept him, but Ryder stopped him with a glare. Menace was an art form heâd studied for twelve years in the Army. He knew how to intimidate without a word, without a weapon. Could kill as easily.

No one stood between Ryder and his men. Ryder dialed back the tension bunching his shoulders. He scanned the scene, gauging overall mood and readiness. Time didnât allow for more than superficial recon.

A row of patrol cars created a barricade behind which officers lined up, guns drawn. They faced a nondescript ranch house on five acres of hard dirt. A pickup truck was parked under a stand of trees, the only shade for a good ten miles. The shade didnât help much; it was Texas summer hot.

Nervous energy spread like gossip through the officers on this side of the scene. They were getting trigger-happy the longer the standoff lasted. Jittery men did stupid things.

Ryder walked through the line of patrol cars. No one noticed until he placed his body between the police and the scene of the crime. A last line of defense for the soldier in the barricaded house.

Expletives exploded behind the cop cars. Ryder let loose a sarcastic grin and turned; sure he had their attention now. He lifted his hands so they didnât feel compelled to shoot him. The energy in the open field shifted from unease to outright distrust. Sweaty grips tightened on guns. Every eye in the area focused on Ryder and judged him a million kinds of fool.

Ryder met their uncertainty with cool resolve. Todayâs mission involved getting PFC Madigan out alive, which put Ryder in the hot seat. Times like this, he missed the adrenaline rush: the increased heart rate, the quicker thinking, and increased energy that presaged a good fight.

âSir, step back,â a male voice spoke into a bullhorn.

Ryder shook his head no. He raised his voice for the camera and the crowd. He didnât need a bullhorn. âI served with the man inside the house. You want this to end peacefully?â He nodded at the camera. âLet me go in and talk to him.â

More expletives before a tall, slender man wearing a ballistics vest stepped to the west end of the barricaded cars. Tall like a Jolly Green, the manâs shadow stretched across the desert, the setting sun casting him in silhouette. Any half-trained soldier coming off a three-day bender could take him out. The soldier trapped in the house qualified as exceptionally trained. Ryder had done the training.

Ryder held his position, protecting both sides from bloodshed. âSheriff,â he guessed, rightly so when the man nodded. âI was on the phone with your suspect when you arrived on scene. Weâve established rapport. Let me go in before the situation escalates.â

It wasnât a question. Ryder didnât back down. Another news van pulled up in a billow of dust. The crew jumped out, filming on the fly.

A sidebar conversation happened behind the cars while the cameras whirred. Even at sunset, the temps were in the triple digits. The heat factor fueled tempers. Voices raised and lowered with curses and outrage.

Standing between the police and their suspect, Ryder didnât break a sweat. He absorbed the heat, used it to fuel his system. Guns from both sides pointed at him. The police maintained their vigil, while inside, Madigan would do the same, his sole focus on the troops massing in his front yard. âMad Dogâ Madigan was a weapons specialist. He would have the scene covered.

While the sheriff and his men deliberated, Ryderâs backup moved into position through the rear of the house.

The phone in his back pocket buzzed with an incoming call. He reached and guns lifted to the top of the cars. His hands stayed steady as he pulled the phone out, keeping his movements slow and deliberate. The voice on the other end reached his ears before the phone did.

âPlease tell me these reports arenât live.â The Texas drawl didnât calm the panic in her voice. He could picture her pretty face, brows raised in frustration. Her hands fluttering as she spoke.

âTheyâre live.â Regret closed his eyes for a barely perceptible moment. Lauren. Heâd told her he had to go help an Army buddy. âThis is me helping a friend.â

âWith guns pointed at you?â

âSometimes, thatâs what it takes, baby. I gotta go.â

âRyderââ

He clicked off and dialed Madigan. The call connected without a word spoken. The soldierâs breathing pattern was high and erratic, which concerned Ryder more than the police standoff. Every damn thing about this situation felt wrong. None of this shit was the way they were trained. Hell, Ryder would have sworn emotion had been beaten out of them until he heard the sob on the other end of the line.

âThis is bad, Ryder.â

âNo shit.â He kept his tone low and measured, aware of the audience.

âDo you thinkââ

âIâm coming in whether they let me or not. Keep it holstered.â He pocketed the phone and looked across the yard to the sheriff. The other manâs gaze hid in twilight shadows, but his stance read more relaxed than the rest of his men. âSheriff, I have him on the phone. This is your one chance to end this standoff without bloodshed.â

âHow do I know youâre not taking another weapon inside?â

The smirk came natural to Ryder. Who was the sheriff kidding? Madigan stockpiled enough weaponry to start a civil war. The cache of weapons was what kept the sheriffâs men hunkered down instead of going inside. Ryder lifted his shirt and turned slowly, he even smiled for the cameras as he proved he wasnât armed or dangerous. Well, the dangerous part was open for interpretation. âIâm not losing another soldier, Sheriff. Thatâs a promise I made my men when we came back.â

There wasnât a soldier alive who didnât know the odds. Twenty-two suicides a day. Not today. The words were a prayer. Too bad Ryder had nothing left to believe in or pray to. Sometimes you had to handle shit on your own.

âYou can shoot me in the back for the cameras if you want, but Iâm going in.â

He didnât wait for a response. The dirt shifted under his boots as he spun and headed to the front porch. Ants circled a discarded pizza box on the welcome mat. The stench of rancid cheese hit him as he grabbed the doorknob, which turned easily in his hand. Ryder pushed into the house. Gloom shrouded the entryway.

âClose the door.â The voice came from the black void several feet to the right. âLock it.â

âNot my first rodeo,â he said, but moved to comply. âYou hung up on me earlier today, Mad Dog. We didnât finish our conversation.â

They followed a strict protocol. No matter where a soldier lived, if he called, someone came running. No questions. They werenât going to be part of some fucked-up statistic. Ryder was geographically closest to Madigan, so he dropped everything, kissed his new wife, and hit the highway. Rose had moved in from the north, and theyâd arrived about the same time.

âI shouldnât have called. Shouldnât have involved you. I woke upââ Another hiccup from a hardened warrior. What the ever-loving hell?

âNightmare?â They happened, and when they did, they felt real. Sounded real.

âI called before I had time to pull my head out.â Madiganâs tone calmed. âBefore I could pin down what was real, a shitload of cop cars came barreling down the drive. How the fuck did they know to show up?â

âGood question.â Ryder kept his tone slow and easy as he catalogued the surroundings, waiting for his backup to come at Madigan from behind. Ryder was the distraction. They werenât losing another soldier.

âYou did the right thing, calling me. Thatâs the deal. Live by the team.â They might be out of the Army, might be disillusioned and disgraced, but they were still a fucking team.

âI lost time today, Ry.â

Could they still be having side effects after all these months? âHow much time?â

âHours.â The anguish in Madiganâs voice turned the dark hall into a black hole. âIâm afraid to turn on the light. Find out whatâs real.â

âThe hell you are.â No fear wasnât just a motto. âPack that shit up. Concentrate on the situation. Where are Maggie and the baby?â

âTheyâre my life. You know that?â

âI do. So letâs end this so you can get back to living.â

Sniffling sounded from a corner and Ryder was closer to triangulating Madiganâs position. He could take him in the murky light, but Madiganâs eyes were already acclimated to the black void. Heâd have the upper hand. Darkness was Ryderâs friend, helped him focus, but today, night vision didnât give him the advantage. Ryder reached to the wall and patted until he hit a switch. He flipped the light.

âFuck.â Madigan shielded his eyes with one hand while the other aimed a gun at Ryder.

Where the hell was Ryderâs backup? Rose was supposed to take Madigan from behind, but Mad Dogâs back was now against a wall. Madigan backed himself into a corner looking every bit like his call sign: Mad Dog. A halo of red hair capped a tall, lean body smeared with war paint. The wild expression on his face surpassed insane. Blood covered Madiganâs hands and bare chest as if heâd painted himself in some twisted ritual. His eyes were dilated.

âYou on drugs?â Maybe drugs explained the panic that shouldnât be there. And the lost time.

âWhat does that mean, Mad Dog? You know better than to experiment with that shit.â With everything they had had pumped into their systems, even alcohol was a gamble.

âI didnât, not on purpose, Ryder, I swear, but I woke up with the worst fucking headache. Disoriented.â

Theyâd all experienced those symptoms at least once. Shit. âWhatâs the last thing you remember?â

âI went into town to get pizza. Maggie didnât feel good and the baby was fussy. I thoughtââ He pounded his forehead with the hand holding the gun. âWhy the fuck canât I remember?â

âWhat time was that?â

âLunch.â

Hours ago. âYour truckâs out front. Do you remember pulling into the drive?â

âYeah.â He pounded the back of his skull into the wall. âMaggie screamed. Thatâs what I remember. She screamed. I bolted. God, I canât believeâ I wouldnât, but I had to, itâs only me in the house. And Iâm covered in it.â His voice rose. âTheyâre my life.â

âCalm down.â Something was seriously fucking wrong, because the soldier stank with fear. Ryder took two measured steps closer.

âStay back.â Madigan lifted a handgun and aimed at center mass. âDonât take another step.â

Ryder paused. âIâm not afraid of dying.â

âNeither am I.â

Wasnât that the problem?

Keep him talking. âDid Maggie leave you?â

âI wish.â Panic lifted his voice. âNot the way you mean. I donât remember, but it had to be me.â An unfocused haze covered his eyes in a thin white film. âIâm the only one here, and thereâs so much fucking blood.â

âYouâre not making any sense.â Two steps closer. âSitrep,â he barked, demanding a situation report from the soldier.

The order snapped Madiganâs shoulders to attention. âTheyâre dead.â He twisted his bloody hand in front of his hazy eyes as if the five fingers held the answers. âTheyâre my life.â

Seconds later, something in his eyes went hard. Determination replaced the haze, causing a shift in the soldierâs stance. All the training and the mood-altering modifications clicked into place until Mad Dog metamorphosed into a warrior.

Ryder launched across the space, but he wasnât faster than a speeding bullet. Blood spatter hit him before exposing the ruined skull of a man Ryder considered a brother. Mad Dog was a soldier, a protector, and a killer. Where did one start and the others begin?

Rose barreled down the stairs at the sound of gunfire. âWhat the fuck?â He took in the sight of the fallen soldier. Theyâd seen death. Theyâd lost teammates, but theyâd never lost one like this. Train a man to kill, take away the fear, and suicide was too damned easy.

âWife and kid are dead,â Rose confirmed. âBloody fucking sacrifice. Just like Kandahar.â

One of the special teams had turned sadistic in Kandahar and taken out a local village. Bad press didnât begin to cover the fallout. The organization reacted swiftly, shutting down the program and denying any and all knowledge. Contracts were severed. Their service records heavily redacted. Overnight, the entire team was out. Out of the military, out of the war, out of the only life they knew. Team Fear took the fall.

Nothing about Mad Dogâs situation could leak. Fallout from a failed government program on U.S. soil would be catastrophic. If the company investigated, retribution would be swift and fatal.

âShit, Ryââ

âI know. Get out,â he ordered. The cops didnât need to know Rose had been in the house. âRendezvous at zero three hundred hours. If Iâm not there, you go underground.â

Rose vanished up the stairs. Outside, some idiot on a bullhorn issued threats he couldnât hear inside the macabre house of hell.

Ryder leaned against the wall, and then slid down as the world shifted under his feet. Was this what it meant to be fearless?

Sheâll do whatever it takes to find her son - Lie. Cheat. Steal. Seduce... As the former wife of an infamous crime boss, Sofia Capri is untouchable. She exists outside of the law...and outside of the criminal world. When her son is kidnapped, Sofia is desperate to find him. Sheâll do anything. Lie. Cheat. Steal. Anything but trust. But itâs a strikingly handsome FBI agent whoâs her only chance to get her baby back... Something about Sofiaâs fiery beauty must be hitting all of his weak spots, because suddenly Mr. Law And Order Logan Stone finds himself bending the rules. When theyâre implicated in the kidnapping, Logan and Sofia discover a horrifying realityâthey have less than 72 hours to find the boy and clear their names.

Cindy Skaggs grew up on stories of mob bosses, horse thieves, cold-blooded killers, and the last honest man. Those mostly true stories gave her a lifelong love of storytelling and heroes. Her search for story took her around the world with the Air Force before returning to Colorado. As a single mom, sheâs turning her lifelong love of storytelling into the one thing she canât live without: writing. She has an MA in Creative Writing, three jobs, two kids, and more pets than she can possibly handle. Find her on Facebook as Cindy Skaggs, Writer, @CLSkaggs on Twitter, or www.CSkaggs.com to sign up for her newsletter.

Interview

Q: Please tell us about Live By The Team and what inspired you to write it.

A: Every book starts with a character for me, and for this book, that character was Ryder. Heâs a badass, a little dark, and a lot sexy. Heâs prior military, accustomed to leadership, and trying to keep his disgraced Army team together while their world falls apart. I had this image of him in the desert at sundown walking into a live crime scene, snapping the yellow tape, and putting himself between the police and whoever was involved in the standoff. He lifts his shirt (women everywhere fan themselves) to prove he isnât armed or dangerous. âWell, the dangerous part was open for interpretation.â

Lauren is a good foil for him. Sheâs strong-willed, independent, and highly intelligent with a hint of insecurity and a fear of being alone. Sheâs a history professor and a PhD candidate, because even smart girls deserve love. Sheâs not above challenging Ryderâs arrogance, and sheâs been known to threaten to gut him and filet him for dinner, but at the end of the day, heâs the one man who can give her the love she craves. Together, they seriously heat up the page!

As I delved into the writing, I realized that what drew me to the story was a fascination with fear. Untouchable, my debut novel, went deep into the main characterâs fear, which at one point is immobilizing. The men of Team Fear are the exact opposite. They charge head-on at fearful things. Studying fear has become an academic focus for me, so it was only natural that my fiction would take on a new aspect of fear. Iâm in awe of the men and women of the military, police, fire, and other first responders who charge towards the trouble the rest of us run from.

Q: What themes do you explore in Live By The Team?

A recurrent theme for me revolves around abandonment and trust. Laurenâs father died fighting in Iraq when she was a kid, and her mother never emotionally recovered. Lauren is determined not to make her motherâs mistakes, so when Ryder disappears; sheâs ready to write him off. What does it take to trust? What does it take to risk it all for love, even your most visceral fear?

The other theme that is prevalent in this particular story is home. I know firsthand the difficulty of moving every few years with military orders, leaving behind friends, family, and all that is familiar. The physical location changes every few years for military members, so what makes a home? Is home a place or is it people?

Q: I understand you have an aggressive writing schedule. Are you exhausted? Do you still enjoy writing?

A: Yes. Yes it is exhausting, but also thrilling. From October â December of 2015, I wrote 2 category romantic suspense novels plus a novella in the Untouchable series that are all now with my editor at Entangled, and after seriously stretching my legs as a writer, I didnât want to slow down. The Team Fear idea had been percolating for quite some time, and this was the perfect time to work on it.

Writing is a puzzle for me. I setup a schedule where I can write close to 20 hours a week plus my MFA homework, my regular job, and teaching night classes at a local college. Oh, yeah, plus the kids and the pets and the rest of life as we know it. It is exhausting, but in the best possible way. Even when Iâm struggling with a scene, Iâm happy that I have the ability to do what I love most. I hope I always feel the joy of sitting down to the computer, putting in my ear buds, and zoning at to my make-believe world.

Q: What is your most challenging aspect of writing?

A: Starting. Until I have that clear vision in my head of the characters and the opening of the story, I resist. I listen to a playlist for every book or series that I write, and I play it all the time to immerse myself in the emotional mindset of the characters. This stage is the only time that I canât read anyone elseâs work because I need that sole focus on the incoming book. The funny thing is, I forget this every time, and every new book creates this same sad frustrating cycle until something clicks and the characters start taking on a life of their own.

Q: Describe your typical writing day?

A: I drop the kids at school and head to a coffee shop where I meet a couple of my writing friends (as often as we can all get there, anyway). We use writing sprints to keep us motivated, writing for 30 minutes at a time and comparing output. Itâs not as competitive as it sounds. Mostly, weâre encouraging each other to write more and better. Sometimes the process changes when someone has a book coming out and wants to talk about publicity, promotion, and Indie publishing, but for the most part, weâre there from 10-3 to get writing done, and all of us have improved the quality and the quantity of our work this way. Writing sprints have liberated me as a writer, because if youâre writing fast, you donât have time to get in your own way.

Q: Whatâs the happiest moment youâve lived as an author?

A: That changes with each project, but right this second, itâs Indie publishing the Team Fear series. It is flying without a net, terrifying and thrilling, but worth the ride.

Q: Is writing an obsession to you?

A: Absolutely. I get cranky (what a nice word) when I donât write. The truth is, I become a raving witch and my children run as fast and as far as they can. My son calls it âcavingâ when I need to write. âAre we caving tonight?â heâll ask, and it gives me permission to hide in my cave to write. Writing helps me get through all the crap in my head so I donât take it out on those closest to me. I could give up wine and coffee and even the gym (well, actually, that wouldnât take much incentive), but I could never give up writing. I honestly believe Iâd go crazy without the ability to create fictional worlds and fictional characters.

Q: Ray Bradbury once said, âYou must stay drunk on writing so reality cannot destroy you.â Do you agree?

A: Truth. I cannot speak for other writers, but for me, reality isnât such a great concept. I think thatâs true for many creatives. Itâs why we create. If I became too much of a realist, my ability to write would disintegrate. I can handle a cruel and unjust fictional world, but a cruel real world will send me to the nearest tub of Ben & Jerryâs.

Q: Do you have a website or blog where readers can find out more about you and your work?

My blog is a little like my happy place. I love to see people there, digging through my brain for the newest relevant or irrelevant (or irreverent) post. And I love to engage in conversations (so please post and comment). http://www.cskaggs.com/see-cindy-write I have recently added a writerâs tab to my website where I post writing related topics. Iâve started and continue to facilitate a local writing group, and itâs our place to post on what weâve discussed each month, but I think the information is valuable for writers everywhere. http://www.cskaggs.com/writers

Q: How has your upbringing influenced your writing?

My dad was significantly older than my mom, and consequently, he died when I was still a kid. It flattened me, so I buried myself in books, starting with Nancy Drew. As a Pisces and a dreamer and an (un)realist, I lived in my dreamworld. I could create fiction out of any environment and lived there. It protected me as a child, and insulated me as an adult. I think the ability to live in fiction is a gift, but others would say itâs a curse, because I have a hard time facing unpleasantness (why would I do that when I can read a book!?).

Q: When and why did you begin writing?

My first short story was written in the 5th grade as a result of a creative writing prompt. I doubt Mr. Pittman meant for it to affect my life in the way that it did, but I wrote a three-page short story about my class being stuck on a cruise ship in the Bermuda Triangle. I, obviously, was the heroine of the story (yes, I saved my classâs fannies). I wrote it out, on purple paper with purple ink, and I wore an actual dress (gasp) to read it aloud to the class. After I finished, Mr. Pittman said, âNow I see why you dressed up.â From that point forward, I knew Iâd be a writer (even if I always thought it in the future tense).

Q: Do you recall how your interest in writing originated?

It was an extension of my reading, and it started young. I read Nancy Drew from a young age, and in the 4th grade in Mr. Neisâs class, I started reading The Little House on the Prairie books (which led to a long stage of historical fiction writing). When I was 13, my motherâs Aunt Ilene gave me a brown grocery bag filled with Harlequin romances, and I was hooked. She taught me that you âhidâ your âtrashyâ romances, and that the super-hot doctor always fell for the awkward nurse/patient. I knew I wanted to create a world that existed outside reality and that ended Happily Ever After.

Q: When did you first know you could be a writer?

I finished my first novel in high school. I never showed it to a soul, but through my historical, Civil War, âepicâ romance, I learned that I could complete a novel. Unfortunately, I never gave myself permission to pursue writing as a career. After high school, I joined the Air Force. After the Air Force, I got a âpayingâ job. I went back to college, and still didnât give credence for my desire to write. After I had kids, I âdidnât have time to write.â In 2011, I finally gave myself permission to write, and I applied to the Creative Writing program at Regis University. Thatâs when I finally knew that my desire to write could become a payable and pursuable career choice. Others probably donât need as much validation, but Iâm nothing if not persistent in my resistance.

Q: What genre are you most comfortable writing?

Like my reading, my writing is all over the card catalog. The best thing about getting a Masters in Creative Writing is the expansion of your awareness as a writer. It forces you to work in other genres, and I learned that I didnât hate them. âº I write literary nonfiction, and wouldnât have known what it was if I hadnât gone back to school. I absolutely love it. It feels very natural to write as myself (something I always thought I wouldnât do), but romance was my first love in writing, and Iâm still most comfortable there. I like the cadence and the patterns and the HEA.

Q: Did writing Live By The Team teach you anything and what was it?

Fabulous question. It taught me to face my fears and it taught me to take risks, both of which of have to do with Indie publishing and believing in my story and myself. The characters always teach me things, an unexpected and sometimes unwanted revelation. Lauren is very self-motivated and self-contained. She doesnât need a man, but man-oh-man, does she want Ryder. Itâs hard for her to give up her perceived independence and start acting as a partner, and I realize I have some of those same pig-headed tendencies. I need to learn to accept help and work together rather than independently all the time.

Q: What is your favorite quote from Live By The Team and why is it your favorite?

Asking me to pick one line out of 85,000 words is a little like asking me to pick a favorite child, but in the interests of fairness, the first line that comes to mind is something I tell my kids all the time: Love is an action word. Ryder is a smooth talker, he can quote poetry, and The Art of War, and naughty limericks, and Lauren is easily swept away the first time, but after he disappears for six months, sheâs gotten a little hard. A little bitter. âLove is an action word, Ryder. Your sweet words donât buy you a pass.â

Q: Who is your biggest supporter?

My kids. I cannot tell you how fabulous it feels for them to support me, and itâs an interesting role reversal. They tell me all the time that they think Iâm a great writer, that theyâre proud of me, and that they canât believe I have more Twitter followers than they do. J Theyâve known for years that we go without material possessions so that I can pursue my education and my writing, and while they may miss âthings,â theyâve never complained. I hope it teaches them to pursue their greatest passion.

In Live By The Team, thereâs a line where Ryder asks his army buddy why he joined Team Fear, an experimental program. Rose answers: âDoesnât matter. I signed the papers and drank the Kool-Aid.â The Kool-Aid is the symbol for what brought them to this point, so in the dedication to my kids, saying I would drink the Kool-Aid means I would repeat any and all of my life choices that led me to them, because theyâre worth everything.

Q: Who is your biggest critic?

Me, absolutely. After I finish a book, Iâm sure itâs garbage and shouldnât see the light of day. I have to put it away for awhile before I can read it and evaluate it fairly.

Q: What cause are you most passionate about and why?

My kids, single moms, writing, teaching, and the perfect pair of boots. I work three jobs, go to college, teach college classes, have kids and pets and a house and a car to maintain. All that âworkâ helped me to focus on what was important to me and what Iâm passionate about, which is split evenly between my kids and my writing. All jokes about boots aside, Iâm passionate about the inequity in this country that faces single moms as an extension of my own experiences and those of women around me, which has led to my passion for teaching, because I believe education is a way out of the bad place many women find themselves.

Q: What are you currently working on?

Finishing up the Team Fear series. Book 2 continues the story as we follow Rose in the fight against... Well, weâll just have to see. J

Q: Do you have any advice for writers or readers?

Trust your instincts. When youâre younger, you think you have to learn âthe rules.â Mostly, I want writers to trust the process. The technical aspects of writing will come the more we read and write, but if we rewrite our book every time someone mentions a ârule,â weâll kill the book faster than we would if we never wrote another word. And sadly, listening to those ârulesâ and their advocates can block us from writing at all, and that, my friends, is a tragedy. Trust your instincts. If you believe your writing should go in a certain direction, go that direction and hang the rules.

Q: What are some of your long term goals?

To rule the world...oops, thatâs the Evil Cindyâs goal. For me, I want to finish the Team Fear series, and I have another novel, more womenâs fiction than romance (no dead bodies) that Iâm rewriting as part of my MFA thesis project. Under the category of fame, fortunate, and everything that goes with it, I want to make some best seller lists, maybe get a movie deal, and as long as weâre talking dreams... Nah, those are things I canât control (even if I do want them). What I want most is to reach readers, and provide for my family. If I could write full time, that would be like winning the lottery.

Q: Are you a different person now than you were 5 years ago? In what way/s?

Not even in the same zip code as I was five years ago. I was an insecure single mom who didnât know how sheâd provide for her kids. Ironically, I lived in fear. All. The. Time. Now I donât have time for fear. Thatâs not to say it doesnât exist, but Iâm running around all the time, so fear doesnât know where to catch me. J And I embrace things that scare me, such as Indie publishing this series. Five years ago, I wouldnât have even attempted it.

Q: Do you have a press kit and what do you include in it? Does this press kit appear online and, if so, can you provide a link to where we can see it?

A: Yes. I have a list of interview questions, my bio, links to my social media sites, plus my cover photo, because, dang, Mayhem Cover Creations did a fab job on that cover!

Q: Have you either spoken to groups of people about your book or appeared on radio or TV? What are your upcoming plans for doing so?

A: I established and continue to facilitate a local writers group, so I speak monthly on various writing craft topics as well as critique both fiction and nonfiction. I was recently interviewed on the Creative Magazine Radio Show, and I participated in an annual writing program established by the Pikes Peak Library District called the Mountain of Authors. I enjoy speaking on topics of writing craft and fear.

​ Good Girl By: Lauren Layne Releasing May 17, 2016
Loveswept

​In this steamy novel from the USA Today bestselling author of Blurred Lines, country music’s favorite good girl hides away from the world—and finds herself bunking with a guy who makes her want to be a little bad.Jenny Dawson moved to Nashville to write music, not get famous. But when her latest record goes double platinum, Jenny’s suddenly one of the town’s biggest stars—and the center of a tabloid scandal connecting her with a pop star she’s barely even met. With paparazzi tracking her every move, Jenny flees to a remote mansion in Louisiana to write her next album. The only hiccup is the unexpected presence of a brooding young caretaker named Noah, whose foul mouth and snap judgments lead to constant bickering—and serious heat.

Noah really should tell Jenny that he’s Preston Noah Maxwell Walcott, the owner of the estate where the feisty country singer has made her spoiled self at home. But the charade gives Noah a much-needed break from his own troubles, and before long, their verbal sparring is indistinguishable from foreplay. But as sizzling nights give way to quiet pillow talk, Noah begins to realize that Jenny’s almost as complicated as he is. To fit into each other’s lives, they’ll need the courage to face their problems together—before the outside world catches up to them.

​JennyA week ago, I had my first burrito baby.I mean, I didn’t know I was evenpregnant.Thank God I have the tabloids to tell me these things.It happens that way sometimes, at least in Hollywood, land of the flat bellies.See, if your bellyisn’tcompletely flat, if maybe you’ve put on a few pounds courtesy of a penchant for extra guacamole on your Chipotle burrito . . .Bam. You’re at the grocery store buying tampons and M&M’s and you glance over, and there you are, all over the rag mags.Pregnant.Or at least accused of it.Because the tabloids don’t seem to care that it’s been quite some time since a guy’s been near my . . .ahem.Apparently in Hollywood you don’t need a guy. All it takes to get “knocked up” in L.A. is a tortilla the size of a hubcap and an avocado or four.Let me be clear: I am not pregnant.I just like to eat. A lot.To be honest, up until last week, when I naïvely ordered extra sour cream while wearing a tight-fitting T-shirt that apparently accentuated the fetus that wasn’t there, I hadn’t really thought a lot about Hollywood beauty standards.I mean, for starters, I’m not Hollywood. At all.I live in the Hollywood Hills, yes. I rent a Hollywood director’s home, yes. Even did a tiny cameo in a movie a few months back.But I, myself, am Jenny Dawson.A country singer.Don’t.Roll.Your.Eyes.Igetthat country music can be polarizing, I do, I really do. But IswearI don’t twang about dead dogs and dusty highways. I just write songs about real life.Mylife. And then I sing them.Formerly in the shower, and now on the radio.Where was I going with this?Oh, right.Hollywood.And how I’m not it.It’s not that I hate Los Angeles. Sure, the traffic sucks, and the women of SoCal have more than their fair share of silicone between the shoulders, but the city’s got its good points too. The weather. The ocean. The shopping.But the paparazzi thing has been getting under my skin.I’m not one of those girls who moved here to get famous. I was already famous, courtesy ofAll of Megoing double platinum last year.When my agent and label suggested that some time in L.A. might be good for maintaining my “mainstream” popularity, I didn’t really fight it. See above points about weather and ocean.But I wasn’t counting on beingquiteso center stage all the time.I certainly wasn’t counting on the fact that I’d be embracing the homemade smoothie revolution. And actually,embracingis a strong word. Let’s just say I had to actually read the instructions before I knew how to work the fancy blender. And yes, Imayhave allowed my weight gain, and the tabloids’ notice of it, to shame me into the land of kale and quinoa.And there you have it. The backstory of why I’m currently standing in the kitchen of a rented house, wearing yoga pants and a pink sports bra, and trying to work up the courage to ingest the green goo in front of me.

​Lauren Layne is the USA Today Bestselling author of more than a dozen contemporary romance novels.

Prior to becoming an author, Lauren worked in e-commerce and web-marketing. A year after moving from Seattle to NYC to pursue a writing career, she had a fabulous agent and multiple New York publishing deals.

Lauren currently lives in Manhattan with her husband and plus-sized Pomeranian. When not writing, you'll likely find her running (rarely), reading (sometimes), or at happy hour (often).

Beth is mistaken for rock star Sonita La Cruz, and ends up on a billionaire-dollar yacht. As a shift-worker in Glasgow, Beth has only known hardship. Now she's in a world of uniformed stewards, delicious French food and rows of gorgeous designer clothes. Beth keeps quiet about the mix-up, determined to wear every outfit in her wardrobe before she's sent home. What's wrong with a little play-acting? Beth takes to the role of rock diva like a duck takes to water. Aleksandr, the captain, arrives and is astonished to see a beautiful raven-haired girl lying on deck issuing orders through a loud-hailer. After talking to Beth, Aleksandr realises what has happened. His smuggling buddies, knowing Aleksandr needs to speak to Sonita about a kidâs crisis, grabbed Beth by mistake. Aleksandr is desperate. To save those children, he needs money, but Sonita has disappeared. Beth rises to the challenge. She looks like Sonita, so why not BE Sonita? Beth does a magazine interview for one million dollars, and ransoms herself for another million. Beth saves the kids â¦ but can she save herself? Too late, Beth discovers why Sonita disappeared.

How could she communicate with these men? And where they hell were they going? It was as if the man in the frilly apron had read her mind. He produced pen and paper and began to draw a crooked diagram. Within seconds she realised what she was seeing: a map of Great Britain! He was trying to tell her where they were heading. He drew some waves, then the bulging outline of Western Europe. Please, God, she mentally pleaded. Donât draw Africa. Thankfully, the pen moved back up, to the north-west tip of Spain and made a cross. âVigo,â her host explained. She nodded. âVigo.â She took a slug of coffee. God, it was delicious. Two inches above Vigo, he drew a boat with a stick figure with long black hair. âeto-Vy,â he said, pointing to her. âOK, thatâs me,â she agreed, pointing to herself. She watched as he drew a straight line from the stick figure to the cross. âAnd Iâm going to Vigo!â The pieces of the puzzle were finally fitting into place and - actually - this was fun. âVigo! Vigo!â The two men chorused, delighting in her cleverness. Frilly Apron drew a stick man in the sea just above the cross. âAleksandr Shtcherbatsky Zhivago,â he announced. The stick man had a tiny body, a big head and a bigger smile, his arms thrown wide as if eager to hug her. âMm,â she murmured dubiously. By the time she met this person, she would be in no mood to be hugged. Who was he? Another actor, poised to give her clues to the next phase of the game? But what if he didnât speak English? âDoes he speak English?â she asked. Since Frilly Apron was busy adding a smiley sun to his diagram, she had to shake his shoulder to get his attention. She pointed to the stick man, then made a quacking-duck motion with her hand. âHe speaka Eengleesh?â Frilly Apron nodded. âDa.â âThank Christ for that!â She studied the sketch, seeing the distance they had travelled and the distance that remained, and calculated that they would be in Vigo in two days. But she didnât have two days! She had a job! She had a week of twelve-hour shifts! She had to be home to cook Andyâs dinner or heâd go mental. She had to walk Mrs Baxterâs dog. And, she had to pick up Mr Beattieâs pension. Christ, she had responsibilities. She had a life! She couldnât just sail off into the sunset! She drained her cup. âOK, guys,â she began, pressing out her palms to acknowledge their understandable mistake. âYou got the wrong girl. Me?â She pointed to her chest. âBeth Skiffington - not Sonita.â They grinned widely. âSonita!â they chirruped. âNo, non, nix!â What the fuck was it in Russian? âNyat! They frowned, puzzled. âNyat?â She nodded vigorously. âNyat!â âNyat?â âNyat! Nyat!â She couldnât believe this was happening. Right now, she should be carrying bed-linen onto the ward, not standing on a speeding boat making the noise of a web-footed wading bird. The two men looked confused. It was evident that they had it firmly set in their heads that she was Sonita - and why not? She was not only dressed like the rock star and looked like the rock star but sheâd also been standing on the gangplank of the rock starâs boat. There was only one way to prove she wasnât the singer. Clearing her throat, she began to sing Emeralda. She wasnât keen on Sonitaâs songs because they were too raucous, but this one she did like. âThis moment must last For the rest of our livesâ¦â She sang on, amazed that she could remember the words, relieved that she sounded like a yowling cat. âAnd say goodbye â¦â her voice trickled to a stop. The men were smiling - through their tears. How could she make them understand? She pointed to the sleeve of her fun-fur coat. If anyone knew about real fur, they would. âLook!â she cried, plucking at the fabric. âPolyester crap. Top Budget. Cheap.â She was getting desperate. âMe - not Sonita. Me - not American. Me - not rock star.â By the expression on their faces, she knew she was talking herself into a cul-de-sac. All they could hear was: Sonita. American. Rock star. Defeated, she picked up the coffee pot and topped up her cup. These men believed they had the rock singer and nothing, it seemed, could dissuade them. That meant she had no option but to go along for the ride. She looked at the map. She had two inches to go. At least she wasnât heading for Australia.

What Others Are Saying

âExcellent â¦ proof of her genius in writing fiction.â

-San Francisco Book Review

â5* Wonderful.â

-Lauren Sapala, Book Reviewer and Writersâ Coach

â4.5/5* This is the first novel of Alison Brodieâs that I have read and I can say with sheer certainty that it wonât be the last because I absolutely loved it.â

-Holly at BookaholicConfessions

âItâs a really good read, a page-turner with good characterization and a splendid plot.â

Alison Brodie is a Scot, with French Huguenot ancestors on her motherâs side of the family. Alison was a photographic model, modelling for a wide range of products, including Ducatti motorbikes and 7Up. She was also the vampire in the Schweppes commercial.

A disastrous modelling assignment in the Scottish Highlands gave Alison an idea for a story, which was to become Face to Face. She wrote Face to Face as a hobby and then decided to send it off to see what would happen. It was snapped up by Dinah Wiener, the first agent Alison sent it to. Three weeks later, Alison signed a two-book deal with Hodder & Stoughton. Subsequently, Face to Face was published in Germany and Holland. It was widely reviewed, ie: âVain, but wildly funny leading lady.â -Scottish Daily Mail. It was also chosen as Good Housekeepingâs âPick of the Paperbacks.â

Unfortunately, Alison then suffered from Second-Book Syndrome. The publisherâs deadline loomed and she was terrified because she didnât have an idea for a story! She found the whole experience a nightmare; and this is why she cautions first-time authors to write more than one book before approaching an agent. She managed to finish the book â Sweet Talk â but it bombed.

While writing Sweet Talk, she moved to Kansas and lived there for two years. She loved the people, their friendliness, their free-and-easy way of life, the history and the BBQs! Sadly, her visa ran out and she had to come back to the UK â although her dream is to one day live permanently in America. Now, Alison lives in Biarritz, France.

Alison has taken the exhilarating steps to becoming an indie author. Her second ebook, THE DOUBLE, is out on Amazon Kindle with some great reviews. âExcellent.â âSan Francisco Book Review.

Alison writes contemporary romance. She aims for a strong plot line, set against the background of a world-changing event, coupled with touches of humour, sexual tension and character transformation.

She loves to hear from her readers.Would You Rather Question: Would you rather be trapped in a lift for 10 hours: With a notepad and pen? Or a book to read? Answer: With a notepad and pen. Then I wouldnât be bothered how long I was stuck for.

Question: Would you rather write a message and throw it out to sea in a bottle? Or carve the message in a tree on a desert island? Answer: Throw it out to sea. You never know who is going to find it. A handsome man on a faraway beach perhaps? Question: Would you rather: Read a book while walking? Or write a book on a water bed? Answer: I feel sick just thinking about both of them! I donât know, write a book on a water bed. Question: Would you rather write a puzzle book? Or a cook book? Answer: Definitely a cook book. I love cooking. Question: Would you rather accidentally drop your new printed manuscript in a lake? Or have a gust of strong wind blow it everywhere? Answer: Blow everywhere â¦ while Iâm screaming to passers-by: âPick it up!!â Question: Would you rather: Publish one insanely great-selling book and never write again? Or publish a string of average-selling books over a 20-year period? Answer: Publish average-selling books. Iâm in this, not for the fame, but for getting stories to my readers. Anyway, I have to write. Question: Would you rather write on a roof-terrace in Istanbul? Or write on the beach in St Tropez? Answer: Definitely not on a beach in St Tropez! I wouldnât be able to concentrate with all those Frenchman running around in slips (tight swimming trunks). Question: Would you rather be upside down and read a book backwards? Or write a book blindfolded? Answer: What??!!! Question: Would you rather live your life? Or the life of your character in The Double? Answer: I want to be Beth (without the miserable childhood) and be taken away on a billion-dollar yacht and meet Aleksandr. Sigh â¦.

Stumbling across an underground MMA fight ring in Sydney, her blood roars as she watches the ruthless Hayden "Hooligan" Harvie wipe the floor of the octagon with his latest opponent.

Gabriella decides she wants to fight professionally; to support her siblings with her fists...and she wants Hooligan to teach her.

Hooligan doesn't think girls should fight. Especially young, pretty ones he'd love to have warming his bed for a night or two...if only he could silence his conscience long enough.

Every couple needs to fight for their love at some stage, however with two stubborn hearts at stake, a happy ending for these two will require an all-out BRAWL.

Kylie Hillman is an Australian author.Wife to a Harley-riding, boating and fishing, four-wheel driving quintessential Aussie bloke.Mum to two crazy, adorable, and original kids.Crohn's Disease sufferer and awareness campaigner.She’s also an avid tea drinker, a connoisseur of 80s/90s rock music, and is known for lacing everything she says with sarcasm and inappropriate innuendo.Formerly working in finance, she was forced to reevaluate her plans for her life when severe Crohn's Disease brought her corporate career to a screeching halt. Restarting her childhood hobbies of writing and reading to alleviate the monotony of being sick and housebound, she found her calling, and is enjoying life to the max. A typical day is spent in the "real" world where she hangs out with her awesome family and "book" world where she gets to chill with her fictional characters.Kylie writes the books she wants to read. A lover of strong men who aren't perfect and aren't afraid to admit it, straight talking women who embrace their vulnerabilities, and real life gritty stories, she hopes these themes shine through her writing. An avid reader of all genres, Kylie hopes to release books that keep the reader on the edge of their seat—be it with suspense, romance, or laughter.

It’s senior year at Pacific State University and all-night parties, cheap hookups and regrets are the ruling pastimes.Sophie DeLuca used to be a nice girl—but that was before Luke Lamanuzzi tore her heart to shreds. Now she’s a walking trail of vodka-soaked destruction, something her sexy, smooth-talking coworker Davis won’t let her forget. He might have a secret crush on her—but his playboy reputation would never let him admit it. His best friend Blake’s own love of all-nighters and debauchery comes crashing to a halt when a one-night stand backfires. Level-headed Cassie seems like she’s the one who has it all together, but she’s just better at hiding her skeletons.Ungracefully pirouetting in and out of love triangles, drug addictions and unwanted pregnancies, four friends stumble their way through their last year of study and try to grasp the realities of the world on the other side.

What a trip! This was one emotionally charged roller coaster of a story that takes you deep into the underworld of Young Adult angst. Fast paced and full of sex, love, alcohol, drugs and emotions- this book was utterly addictive and I found myself unable to put it down. With a uniquely intriguing storyline, complex and emotionally charged characters and complex descriptions, the author takes you on a wonderfully creative trip into this realistic world. There were so many emotions flying around I didn't know what to feel a lot of times- but in a good way! I was completely caught up with all of her intricate and complex characters and the trials and adventures they each go through. I was left devouring this book as quick as I could and just could NOT put it down for the life of me! Wow!

Amanda J. Clay is a California native with a resume of clichéd Cali traits, like a love of breakfast burritos, yoga and red wine. She had a fantastic time studying English and Journalism at Chico State University and then a very serious time slaving away for a Master’s degree in Communications from California State University, Fullerton. She currently lives in the charming city of Berkeley, CA. When she’s not staring at a computer screen, she spends most of her spare time plotting world adventures. She currently has one published Young Adult novel, Rebel Song. Watch for her next release, an offbeat New Adult contemporary, out in 2016.

On the hottest day of the year in San Francisco in 1959, Private Detectives Sam and Amelia Slater are contemplating fleeing the city for their Stinson Beach house. However, when Sam decides to take a cable car ride to run some errands on the lazy summer day, he’s suddenly thrust into the spotlight when he rescues a woman who fell onto the busy street. Sam pulls the mysterious red haired woman out of the path of an oncoming cable car in the nick of time. The entire incident is captured by a newspaper photographer who splashes Sam’s heroics all over the front page. Sam is troubled not only by his new status as a city hero, but by the rescued woman’s plea for help. She whispers to Sam that she didn’t fall from the cable car but was pushed. She is frightened and disappears into the crowd before Sam can get more details. A San Francisco newspaper launches a campaign to find the mystery woman and Sam hopes to cross paths with her again.

Meanwhile, Amelia is troubled by the sudden disappearance of her elderly neighbor. Two thuggish younger men who now occupy the house next door say he took a sudden trip. One night when she’s alone Amelia grabs a flashlight and finds some disturbing clues in her neighbor’s garage. What really happened to her neighbor? Amelia is determined to find out.

Award winning author Greg Messel spins a new tale of intrigue in Cable Car Mystery, the sixth book in the Sam Slater Mystery series set in at the 1950s in San Francisco.

For More Information

In the coming days Amelia would try to recall the precise details of the events she witnessed in the middle of the night on Wednesday.

Amelia would never be able to pinpoint exactly what woke her from a sound sleep at2 a.m. As she rolled onto her back and listened, she heard a funny noise inside her house.

Amelia looked at Sam who was undisturbed and sleeping soundly. She heard the noise again. It seemed to be coming from inside the house. A gentle banging noise, like two pieces of wood colliding.

Maybe it was her recently adopted Siamese cat Aloysius, prowling around and getting into mischief. Amelia knew the tomcat roamed the house at night and slept much of the day. Sam and Amelia’s bedroom was located on the second floor of their posh townhouse onLeavenworth Street.

The cat’s first choice for a night time activity was to sleep between Sam and Amelia. Sam quickly vetoed that notion and shut the door on Aloysius at night. The Siamese cat then spent his time pursuing nocturnal adventures.

Amelia gently rolled out of bed and when her feet touched the cool floor, it sent a chill through her. She was wearing a short, yellow, baby doll nightie which provided little warmth when she was not under the covers with Sam.

She heard the noise again.

It seemed to be coming from the spare bedroom. Amelia crept down the hall and reached for the knob on the bedroom door. She hesitated. What if there was an intruder? Maybe she should go get her gun or wake up Sam.

She then decided to proceed. Amelia grabbed the door knob and slowly turned it. Amelia felt a suction grabbing the door making it harder to open. She threw her shoulder into the door and popped it open. The bedroom was dark and cold. Immediately she saw the source of the noise and the cool temperatures.

The trademarkSan Franciscowind had come up during the night and it was howling. The blinds on an open window were slapping against the window frame pushed along by the stiff breeze.

Amelia hurried to the window and pulled up the blinds. The wind penetrated her skimpy nightgown and chilled her to her core. She reached up to push the window closed but stopped when she noticed Aloysius sitting calmly on the second story roof looking out at the horizon.

“Aloysius, get over here,” Amelia said in a stern whisper. Aloysius turned his head briefly to give her a condescending look and then ignored her, resuming looking out on the horizon. Amelia was freezing but didn’t want to leave Aloysius out in the wind storm.

Then something caught her eye beyond the cat on the roof. This was the window which offered a full view of George’s back yard and his house. The car she had seen in the driveway the last several days was running and backed up to the garage with it’s trunk open.

Despite being essentially naked and buffeted by the wind, Amelia strained her eyes to see the strange figures. In the faint light from the headlights and the light in the trunk, Amelia could see the large bald man, the one she had seen looking out the window, struggling with something in the garage. Then a second man emerged from the garage. He was a husky square-looking man with closely cropped hair, who looked very formable.

The two men now emerged into full view at the rear of the car. They were carrying a large, oblong object, which was wrapped in a plaid blanket. There were two ropes tied around the object.

The two men slammed the trunk closed and quickly got in the car. Amelia stood at her bedroom window transfixed watching the taillights disappear into the night as they drove away.

BOOK TRAILER:

About the Author

Greg Messel has spent most of his adult life interested in writing, including a career in the newspaper business. He won a Wyoming Press Association Award as a columnist and has contributed articles to various magazines. Greg lives inEdmonds,WashingtononPuget Soundwith his wife Jean DeFond.

Greg has written nine novels. His latest is “Cable Car Mystery" which is the sixth in a series of mysteries set in 1959San Francisco. “Shadows In The Fog,” ”Fog City Strangler," "San Francisco Secrets," "Deadly Plunge" are sequels to the first book in the series "Last of the Seals." His other three novels are "Sunbreaks," "Expiation" and "The Illusion of Certainty."

Exchanged at birth, Shifty and Evangeline—one human, one sheehaim—have been raised in the opposite’s realm. Thus the stage is set for a dark and ancient ritual which would give the wraiths of the Shadow Realm a power they have long been denied, and for good reason.

In our modern day world, Shifty’s magic is becoming more powerful and her glamour is beginning to fade. She believes she’s having visions and seeks out psychiatric help. But when the people closest to her finally reveal the truth of her ancestry, she also learns that she’s in danger and must learn to protect herself. She must decide: are her lifelong friends truly looking out for her, or are they in league with the creatures from her birth realm, set to groom her for her return?

Evangeline has always known she was a human in a realm of fae. She is the daughter of one of the realm’s most powerful family, and has been promised in marriage to a well-positioned young man. When she begins to suspect there may be nefarious motives for her match, she recruits her friends to help her solve the mystery before the wedding. She must decide: is their loyalty to her, or the realm?

When the Siofra twins finally meet, they must work together to stop the dark ritual — before it can end both their worlds.

Wow- this was a really awesome book! With a completely intriguing new storyline, complex well-built characters and fascinating detail- I was completely hooked on this book and devoured it as quick as I could! Fast-paced and with quite a few twists thrown in, the intrigue and mystery of revealing Shifty's hidden heritage and building on her counterpart, Evangeline as well. Beautifully written with intricate details, the story draws you in from the very beginning and just sinks it's claws into you deeper and deeper with each page! As soon as I thought I had it figured out- a new twist would be thrown in that takes the story on a whole new turn! The emotions were palpable and I felt a real connection with the characters and the trials they go through, This was a completely new take on the classic changeling story and I absolutely enjoyed it! I was left thinking about this story for days after finishing it! I highly recommend this book for anybody who likes YA adventure, fantasy, or even just a light-hearted read! Definitely on my top ten list of best books!

​She knows what happens when you die.Nola Lantry is a tracist: she can sense the particles of energy that are released when the human body expires. It’s a somewhat gruesome ability, but Nola uses it to bring some meaning to her otherwise drab life in upstate New York by assisting the Redfort Police Department on missing person cases. When the richest man in town, Culver Bryant, disappears, Nola finds herself in the middle of a case that is both baffling and increasingly dangerous, the danger appearing in the form of death threats as well as the missing man’s brother, Grayson. Does Grayson Bryant pursue Nola to seduce her or to stop her—and why does Nola feel a connection with him despite her mistrust?

Barely a week has passed since she solved her last case and Nola Lantri is already involved in several new mysteries—with a couple of people who may be just as unusual as Nola herself.

Part 1: Vibe

Eric Lafferty has returned to Redfort City a little too late for his father’s funeral but just in time to get mixed-up in a mystery that involves Nola Lantri, Grayson Bryant, a dead girl and a missing woman. Eric’s ability to read the vibrational changes in brain waves should be an asset, yet it only seems to make life more difficult for him—and given that he and Nola might be the next victims, things are difficult enough.

Part 2: Sync

Emjay used to steal things—nothing big, just enough to get by—but after a terrible accident changes her life, Emjay has only one thing on her mind: revenge. Suddenly private investigator Nola Lantri appears and questions Emjay about her past—and informs her that the mysterious man she works for has a complicated past of his own. Emjay must figure out the best use of her odd ability to “sync,” a technique intended to help people heal—but one that also can cause a lot of harm.​

​Part 1: VibeDespite the crush of bodies, the train car was surprisingly quiet, in vibes and in voices. It was early. Eric hated wasting a whole day flying, so he’d taken a night flight from SFO to LaGuardia and gotten in at ridiculous o’clock. Now he had a couple of hours to kill before the Amtrak to Albany left Penn Station. It would only take him half of that to get into Manhattan, and he’d brought nothing to read and there was nothing interesting to hear. Early morning crowds were always so steady and dull, their vibes still half asleep. No, that wasn’t true. Dreamers’ vibes, the few times Eric had gotten close enough to someone sleeping to hear them, were often crazed and vivid. He smiled remembering the last time he’d heard someone’s dreams. He didn’t know her name, wasn’t even sure of the color of her eyes, but he knew exactly the moment she’d turned her full attention to him in that noisy bar, and even though he hadn’t heard the flirty line she gave him, he knew what she wanted.His smile hardened into wryness. Ten years of studying a “language” of sorts and the only useful thing he learned was how to get lucky once in a while. He supposed that would be enough for most people. It might have to be enough for him. He glanced down at the two pretty women seated nearby, one of whom held a folded-up newspaper and was gesturing toward it. … Their vibes weren’t telling him anything useful (like whether they’d noticed him), so he reluctantly eavesdropped on their conversation. Apparently some girl from a rich Manhattan family was in the news. The news wasn’t good. Found the body . . . upstate, not here . . . at first they thought . . . not suicide, though . . . murder . . . so tragic . . . so young . . . ran away from home . . . part of some cult, they say . . . think the cult members killed her . . . someone named Anna.At that moment, the vibes directly behind him changed. A hard pulsing beat. Loud. Fast. A reaction to what one of the women had just said. Before he could stop himself, Eric turned sharply around. A tall man in an expensive suit stood there. He was not staring at the women but he didn’t have to be. After a lifetime of listening to vibes, Eric still understood very little, but there was one thing he never got wrong: no matter how poker-faced people might appear, he always knew when something got their attention. The murder had caught this man’s attention.And now Eric had caught it as well.The man turned his head sharply to meet Eric’s eyes. Shock, confusion—and guilt. Vibes usually felt as benign as a tuning fork, but this man’s vibes pounded at Eric like a battering ram to his solar plexus. He’d been caught in something, Eric had no idea what, and the man had no idea how he could have been caught. Whatever reason hehad for suddenly paying attention to the women’s conversation, Eric’s attention had thrown him off balance. They locked eyes; neither moved. Eric seldom listened to his own vibes—it was like hearing your own heartbeat; you could tune it out easily—but all he could hear was the sound of his own absolute terror. Then the man stepped toward him.

Part 2: SyncKip wanted to be a doctor because his grandfather was one, because his grandfather wanted to heal people. Me, I wanted to be a doctor because I aced all my science classes in high school and because I wanted to show every last asshole in my old neighborhood—including the family of assholes I grew up with—that I wasn’t the worthless little shit they liked to tell me I was. Yeah, maybe not the purest reason to go to med school. My schmaltzy personal essay that got me into the State University of New York’s premed program sounded more like Kip’s story than my own: an inspirational elderly family member who served as a guiding light and encouraged me to pursue a career—nay, a lifetime—of healing. I think I was laughing as I wrote it, either that or puking. But nobody else needs to know the truth but me. Well, Kip knows most of it, though he chooses to believe only the good parts. That’s Kip.I guess goodness, like a lot of genetic stuff, skips a generation, because Kip’s mother is a total shit. She hates me, of course, thinks I corrupted her precious boy or something. She wanted Kip to go to an Ivy League school instead of a SUNY, never mind that Kip’s grades were only so-so. She likes to think Kip gave up Harvard for me so that she could have a solid reason to hate me. She has to hate someone. Kip’s father left her a while back, but she can’t hate him because that would be admitting he actually left her and wasn’t ever coming back. Yeah, she’s that delusional. Kip’s mother wasn’t wealthy, though she lived like she was—except when it came time to help Kip through college. Kip grew up firmly middle class, which makes it even stranger that he turned out the way he did. He got it, you see. He didn’t pity “the poor,” nor did he blame them for their own problems. Poor people—like my family, like all the people I knew until I left home—were people to Kip. So were rich people, which is why he accorded them equal respect with everyone else, even when we stole from them, even when we—or, really, I—violated the privacy of their homes. He did it because we were this close to being evicted one month and that close to starving another. I did it for those reasons, but also because it fascinated me. This was how normal people lived. These were their homes, stocked with food and clothing, gadgets and books. Their homes were full, clean, and bright. Their homes were happy places.Or at least that’s what I thought until I entered the pretty brick house with the big picture windows. Those windows were framed by rich, burgundy-velvet curtains, and I remembered thinking, If this were my house, I’d keep those curtains open all the time, especially on a sunny day like today, so I could look out the window and see the lawn, because there weren’t broken car parts on that lawn, broken bottles, old needles, or anything else old or broken or bad. I thought a house like that meant never having to see anything bad ever again. I was about as wrong as I could be.*****What was it like to sync someone? Impossible to describe, not because it’s such an intense experience but because it’s so subtle, like whispering sounds that could be words but aren’t quite. You sort of . . . sing, deeply, through your lungs and throat, but you don’t make a sound, and you do something like sliding scales until something clicks, until you know you’ve hit that right “note” that matches your brain waves, or something like that, near as I could figure out. I didn’t think about it too much; I simply tried to get it right.After one semester of practice, I mastered the sync. That’s when I dropped out of school. I didn’t need school anymore; I’d learned what I needed. I also took the full-time position Kip was going to take. It was easy to get; they were hiring by the dozens, it seemed, and I had just as much cred as Kip. I worked hard, learning everything I could there as well. Took vitals, gave sponge baths, moved patients on and off bedpans. Later there would be phlebotomy and a few other specialized skills that required training, though this was laughably easy compared to the self-imposed training of syncing. And the job provided me ample opportunity to sync in a way that was real and beneficial. Every time I interacted with a patient, I synced. And every time I finished and waved goodbye, they had a smile for me, a real one, not the kind of smile that masks pain and fear and exhaustion.Even though my work was stellar, my supervisor couldn’t quite figure me out. The patients always said they felt better after talking with me, even though we never said much to each other and some of them weren’t even sure of my name. I certainly didn’t know all their names, or anything personal about them; beyond syncing I kept my emotional distance from them—from everyone. Once my boss gave me a hard look and said, “Frankly you always seem so--sullen.” I gave her an equally hard look and told her that maybe that’s what patients liked about me. If you’re in pain, who wants to see someone who’s bouncy and chipper? You want to tell them go fuck themselves. She didn’t answer me, just shook her head and walked away. And in truth I don’t really believe that myself. If you’re in pain, you don’t care how people around you look. You just want the pain to stop. That’s why they liked me: through syncing, I helped them stop the pain.I didn’t intend to stay at the hospital, though. Nobody liked me but the patients, and everyone else was starting to watch me very closely. I knew it was only a matter of time before something bad happened. It always does.Sometimes, though, the bad thing happens because you want it to happen.

​Letitia L. Moffitt was born and raised in Hawaii. She received a doctoral degree in English/Creative Writing from Binghamton University. Her first novel, Sidewalk Dancing, was published by Atticus Books in November 2013. Her novel Trace—Book 1 of the TraceWorld series—was published by Cantraip Press in March 2015. Vibe/Sync, Book 2 of the series, will be released by Cantraip Press in April 2016. In her spare time Moffitt runs ultramarathons and blogs about her experiences at http://letitiamoffitt.blogspot.com.

About Me

I'm a Texas gal with a wonderful husband, an amazing six year old son, and an adorable newborn baby boy!​My blog is about the best things in life - cooking, books, giveaways and reviews of everyday products! ​This is a PR-friendly blog!!